Chapter 182 Growth
Chapter 182 Growth
The morning light fell softly on the white terraces of Litus Solis, illuminating the soft cream stones of the academy with the warm ivory of a moonstone. A sea breeze rustled past the hair and brought with it the smell of salt, warm leather, and the distant tar of the shipyards under the harbor.
Young Lord Marcus paused at the crest of the academy grounds and took a slow breath.
It still amazed him.
Only a year ago, this weed-choked mound had been little more than a patch of scrub grass overlooking the city harbor. Now it was alive with voices—apprentices arguing, masters instructing, and the constant scrape and clatter of tools.
The academy was not a quiet place for learning in dusty chambers. It was a stone-built structure on the new seawall.
It was a place where knowledge worked with its hands.
Marcus descended the broad stone path between the buildings, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. Ahead of him stretched an open training field shaded by long canvas awnings.
This was the leather field.
Rows of wide wooden tables stood beneath the awnings, each surrounded by apprentices with sleeves rolled high as they bent over hides stretched tight upon frames. The hides shone in shades of russet, tan, and deep brown. The sea breeze kept the smell away.
At the center of it all stood Master Hollan, the leather master appointed jointly by the Hollows craftsmen and the guilds of Litus Solis.
His voice carried easily across the field.
“No, no—look again, boy,” he said, tapping a long needle against a sample board mounted on a stand. “This is a saddle stitch. It will hold under tension from both sides. But if you use it here—” he tapped a second section “—your seam will tear within a month.”
Marcus slowed his steps, his eyes observing everything.
Mounted upon upright boards were long strips of leather stitched in careful rows. Each strip bore a different pattern.
Cross-stitching formed a neat lattice of thread.
Reinforced seams ran double and thick, designed to withstand strain.
The saddle stitch lay tight and orderly, each loop mirrored perfectly by the one opposite it.
And there, set slightly apart, was something subtler.
Marcus recognized it at once.
The Kale Hidden stitch.
It seemed perfect at first: the leather perfectly smooth and unmarked. The stitching wasn't apparent until the strip was bent slightly, revealing the binding tucked into the fold.
Marcus smiled faintly.
The Hollow had been reluctant to teach that one.
But they were teaching it now.
Nearby, several younger apprentices studied tables laid out with curious little kits. Marcus stepped closer, watching as a girl of perhaps twelve carefully compared two leather samples.
“This one’s wrong,” she said uncertainly.
“How so?” the leather master asked without looking up.
“It stretches unevenly,” she said, tugging gently at the strip. “And the grain feels loose.”
The master nodded approvingly.
“Poor curing. Good eye.”
Marcus leaned closer to examine the kits.
Each tray held small squares of leather labeled with neat parchment tags.
Good cure.
Over-cured.
Uneven stretch.
Too thin.
Too thick.
The apprentices passed them between their fingers like scholars studying relics.
Above them stood easels bearing large illustrated charts showing the entire tanning process—from raw hide to finished leather.
Marcus felt a small thrill.
This was not how guild knowledge had ever been taught before.
Traditionally, an apprentice learned by watching and copying.
Here, they learned the why.
And that made all the difference.
He strolled on.
Beyond the leather field stood a long hall with tall windows that flooded the interior with sunlight.
The moment Marcus stepped inside, he smelled fresh wood shavings and pitch.
This was the shipwright hall.
Along several long tables, apprentices crowded around skeletal wooden models of ships.
The models had no outer planking.
Instead, they revealed the inner bones of the vessels—the keel running like a spine through the center, the ribs arching outward like the frame of some great sea creature.
An aged master with a gray beard struck a rib lightly with a small hammer.
"Here," said the master. "Which of the ribs bears the strain as the hull pitches in a big sea?"
The students looked at the frame.
A boy put up a hand.
"On the keel?"
“Partly,” the master said. “But look again.”
He pressed down on the frame.
The ribs flexed.
“The strain travels outward and downward. If the ribs are weak here—” he pointed to the joint “—the hull will open like a cracked barrel.”
Marcus circled slowly among them.
Along one wall stood large boards fitted with pegs and ropes.
Several apprentices worked on them with great concentration.
These were the rigging boards.
They tied and untied lines again and again, adjusting tension, learning the geometry of sail.
“Too tight,” one instructor said calmly. “See how the line angles now? The wind will pull the mast sideways.”
He loosened the rope slightly.
The rigging shifted.
“Better.”
At the far end of the hall, Marcus heard splashing water.
He turned.
There, built into the floor, was a broad stone basin filled with clear seawater.
Inside floated half a dozen small wooden ships.
A pair of apprentices knelt beside it, gently pushing one model forward.
The vessel glided smoothly across the surface.
Another apprentice placed a broader model into the water.
It moved more slowly.
“Why?” the master asked.
“More drag,” the boy replied eagerly.
“And what causes drag?”
The apprentices leaned over the basin, studying the hull shapes with intense fascination.
Marcus felt his smile widen.
This—this was new.
The masters were not simply teaching the craft.
They were teaching the principles behind it.
He stepped into the adjoining chamber.
This room was smaller, though no less busy.
Marcus had insisted upon it himself.
At first, the guild masters had resisted.
“What need have leatherworkers of mathematics?” they had asked.
Marcus had simply replied:
“Every craft improves when it increases its practitioners' knowledge."
Now the chamber hummed with quiet concentration.
Numerous long tables featured abacuses, rows of small stones sliding in carved channels as apprentices performed the basic sums.
'Eight chests a wagon,' a teacher said in a clear voice. '12 wagons. How many chests?'
The soft clatter of stones moving over the bars filled the room.
Around the room, other apprentices were hunched over their drawing boards, rulers and compasses guiding their hands as they drew circles and triangles.
Marcus watched as one of them divided a circle into many equal parts with extreme precision.
Another apprentice was stacking small blocks of stone to form a small arch.
The master engineer stood beside him, watching him.
'That's too steep,' he said. 'You arch needs to bear a load. Start again.'
Along the central table sat a collection of delicate wooden models.
Tiny cranes with working pulleys.
Small aqueduct spans.
Miniature bridge trusses crossing narrow channels of running water.
Marcus paused beside one student constructing a small crane.
The boy pulled a rope.
The tiny arm lifted a stone weight easily.
Marcus nodded.
“Understanding the machine makes the work easier,” he said.
The boy looked up in surprise.
“Yes, my lord.”
Near the far wall, something familiar caught Marcus’s eye.
A long wooden case leaned against the stone.
He crossed the room and opened it.
Inside lay a surveying kit.
A groma.
Measuring rods.
Leveling frames.
The very tools Marcus had seen used during the building of the aqueduct.
He ran a hand lightly across the polished wood.
Soon, these apprentices would carry such tools across Avalon.
Building roads.
Bridges.
Cities.
Marcus stepped back, letting his gaze sweep across the room.
Students argued over numbers.
Others competed to build stronger arches.
A pair of apprentices debated whose crane lifted the weight more efficiently.
The energy in the room was palpable.
This was no unwilling schooling.
This was an appetite.
Outside the windows, the harbor shimmered in the morning sun.
Marcus marveled quietly.
For centuries, knowledge had been meticulously kept by the guilds and masters.
Now those same masters stood here willingly—sharing what they knew with anyone eager enough to learn.
Not because they had been forced.
But because they had begun to see the truth.
A city that shared knowledge grew stronger.
Marcus turned toward the doorway.
The academy of Litus Solis was still young.
Yet already its halls rang with something Avalon had never truly possessed before.
Not merely craftsmen.
Not merely scholars.
But something new.
A generation that understood how things worked.
And once people understood that…
There would be no limit to what Avalon might build.
The sun had climbed higher by the time Lord Marcus left the academy behind, though the hum of it lingered in his thoughts—the sound of learning made visible, made useful.
Up ahead, Litus Solis sprawled on neat terraces toward the harbor, stone a crisp white, tiles the color of oxblood, all shining under the glare. Marcus didn’t veer towards the docks, though. He veered instead up a rising road toward the interior, where the air began to become parched, the scent of brine replaced by dust and heat-baked grain. The construction site was on the far side of a gentle rise, marked by survey stakes, chalk lines, and the percussive clang of hammers. Marcus approached, followed by his steward; the latter was already wearing a faintly puzzled expression, taking in the move.
“This is far from the harbor, my lord,” the steward murmured. “The grain has always been kept near the docks for ease of unloading.”
Marcus said nothing.
He had learned to listen first.
A small group waited for him at the center of the marked foundation.
The woodworker Kale stood there, arms crossed, his expression thoughtful as always. Beside him was Kali, already speaking with quiet intensity to three men clad in the rough leathers of the Hollows builders.
They turned as Marcus approached.
“My lord,” Kale said with a slight bow. “You come at a good moment.”
Marcus inclined his head. “I am told we are moving the granaries.”
Kali stepped forward, her eyes bright.
“Not simply moving them,” she said. “Improving them.”
One of the Hollow builders—broad-shouldered, with a scar across his jaw—gestured toward the slope.
“The old stores sit too close to the sea,” he said plainly. “Good for wind. Bad for grain.”
Marcus glanced toward the distant shimmer of the harbor.
“The wind makes the drying go faster,” said Marcus.
“It does,” said Kali. “But the wind from the sea doesn’t dry. It makes it wet.”
She went on her knees and drew patterns in the well-trampled dirt with a small piece of stick.
“The wind from the sea is salty air, and salty air is moist air. Even the hot sun will not completely drive the moisture out of the air. The grain dries and then absorbs moisture from the air. After a while...” She knocked on the dirt. “Mold. Damp. Bugs.”
The steward shifted uneasily.
“We lose some,” he admitted. “Ten percent in a good year. More when the rains are heavy.”
“Ten to fifteen,” Kale said quietly. “And more in poor seasons.”
Marcus said nothing, but his gaze sharpened.
“That ends,” Kali said.
She rose and motioned toward the staked foundation.
“We build here instead. Higher ground. Drier air.”
One of the Hollow builders unrolled a rough parchment, weighted at the corners with stones.
The design was simple at first glance—rectangular, elevated, orderly.
But Marcus had learned to look closer.
“The structure stands on stone pedestals,” the builder explained, tapping the drawing. “Raised clear of the earth. No contact with soil. No path for vermin.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“And access?”
The man smiled faintly.
“A removable stair. Set in place when needed. Removed when not. Nothing climbs what is not there.”
The steward let out a soft breath.
“That alone…” he murmured.
Kale gestured toward the upper portion of the design.
“The walls are sealed. The doors are tight-fitted. No gaps. No casual entry for pests.”
Kali stepped forward again, pointing now to a series of narrow openings along the top and bottom of the structure.
"Ventilation," she explained. "But properly regulated."
Marcus looked at the etchings.
"Tell me how."
"The wind can still work for us," she told him. "Just not in the way it works for us at present. We use it deliberately, taking it in at one large intake."
She ran a finger along the line.
"Air goes in at the bottom. But it doesn't get to the grain until it has been through one hot chamber."
The steward looked puzzled.
"Hot?"
Kale nodded.
“A small, constant fire. Not enough to burn. Only enough to dry the air. It strips the moisture before it reaches the stores.”
Marcus was catching on.
"You dry the wind?" he said.
"Exactly," said Kali.
She kept drawing her finger.
"Warm air will rise on its own. It moves up through the grain, and in doing so, it draws out the moisture."
“Through upper vents,” Kale said, indicating the top of the structure. “But these are not open gaps.”
One of the Hollow builders lifted a small wooden model from a nearby crate.
It showed narrow slats angled downward.
“Louvered coverings,” he said. “They allow air to pass, but block direct wind and spray. Even in a storm, the rain cannot drive inward.”
The steward stepped closer, studying the model with growing interest.
“So the grain remains dry… even when the wind turns foul.”
“Yes,” Kali said. “And more than that—it dries faster after storage.”
Marcus folded his arms, considering.
“And insects?” he asked.
Kale exchanged a glance with one of the builders, who stepped forward carrying a small clay jar.
“This is where the old knowledge serves,” the man said.
He opened the jar slightly, and a faint, sharp scent drifted into the air.
“Sulfur,” he said. “And certain bitter resins.”
Kali nodded.
“Caelen has shown us how to use them,” she said. “In enclosed spaces. A controlled burn produces fumes that kill insects and their eggs without harming the grain when properly done.”
Marcus' steward tensed, just a hair.
"You want to choke the granary with smoke?"
"Not quite how you mean it," Kale said evenly. "The entire chamber will be sealed off for the operation. This fumigation is short, it is precise, and it will be completed before new grain arrives. It is a cleaning of the space."
"And the grain?" the steward insisted.
"Untouched. Saved by air and by spacing," said Kale.
The steward seemed to pause to let it sink in.
Marcus turned slowly, letting his eyes sweep across the marked ground. Stone bases. Sealed walls. Air flow. Drying. Heat. Keeping the rain out and keeping pests out.
It was… elegant.
“Losses?” Marcus asked quietly.
Kale’s expression did not change.
“Minimal,” he said. “If maintained properly… nearly none.”
The steward inhaled sharply.
“None?” he repeated. “We have always lost ten to fifteen percent now—and more in wet years.”
Kali met his gaze. “Now you will not,” she said simply.
The words hung in the air. For a moment, no one spoke. Marcus felt something shift—not just in the design before him, but in what it meant. Grain was not merely food. It was stability. It was survival. It was power.
To lose less was to gain more without growing a single additional field.
He looked back at Kale and Kali.
“This will be built,” Marcus said.
Kale inclined his head.
“It will.”
Marcus allowed himself a faint smile.
“Then Litus Solis will not merely feed itself,” he said. “It will feed more than the south.”
The wind shifted, carrying the dry warmth of the inland hills across the site.
For the first time, Marcus understood something his father had said once, standing over the plans of an aqueduct.
Strength did not always come from armies. Sometimes…It came from simply losing less than before.
And that, too, would change everything.
…
As Marcus strode along the bustling dockside, he heard the clatter of tools, the creak of hulls, and the scent of sawdust mingling with salt. His attention caught on a familiar voice—Caelen—animated, gesturing toward a newly laid keel. Marcus slowed his pace, curiosity pulling him closer.
"Speed is the key to our future trade," Caelen stated, his voice calm but forceful. "These new twin mast traders – faster, lighter – can cut down traveling time to the southern ports by more than half, but only if we adopt new techniques. Captain Jilgard, you know this route better than anyone – what do you say?"
Captain Jilgard, the weathered mariner, his hair flecked with grey and the spray of salt, folded his arms. "Aye; a fast boat is a great asset, but it is the stores that clog the system – what use is a fast ship that must resupply every 20-30 days?"
Caelen granted with a slight smile on his lips. "That's why I called for Master Holwyn to come. He's invented a new system standard, casting sizes, and better techniques that reduce downtime. Marcus, perfect timing to come hear about how this could revolutionize our whole supply process."
Marcus stepped forward, intrigued. “Reshape? You’re talking about more than ships, aren’t you?”
Caelen’s gaze met his, his tone confident. “We’re talking about Litus Solis becoming the hub of the entire coastal trade with greater endurance. But it starts right here in the shipyards—with us.”
Marcus did not intend to linger.
Yet the sound of Caelen’s voice—calm, measured, carrying that quiet authority that bent craftsmen and captains alike—drew him in from the edge of the shipwright’s yard.
There was a vital hum to the place. Mallets drove wooden pegs into damp, new wood, dust hung like fine golden powder in the air, and the unformed body of a trade ship lay like some huge sea-beast laid on its back, the ribs naked and exposed to the sky. Standing around it in a tight ring of two master shipbuilders and two seasoned captains were the four men of their gaze, directed not at the hull but at the young lord, who stood among them as though born there.
Marcus slowed, listening.
One of the captains—a broad man with sun-cracked skin—grunted. “Men don’t fail first, Water supply does.”
A murmur of agreement followed.
Caelen inclined his head slightly. “Exactly. Which is why we must change how we carry it… and how we store it.
“A proper butt cask,” Caelen continued, turning to the shipwrights. “This will become the standard measure of the great fleets. Near one hundred and twenty gallons when filled true. Large—but not beyond handling if discipline is kept.”
He let that settle.
“A man at sea—under labor, salted food, and under sun—requires nearly a gallon a day for drinking and cooking. Less, and you weaken him. More, and you waste your stores.”
His hand tapped the cask beside him.
“So—one butt sustains one hundred and twenty men for a single day… or twenty men for six days… or ten men for twelve days… or one man for one hundred and twenty days. That is our constant. From that, we calculate every voyage, every crew, every margin of risk.”
The second captain frowned. “And washing? Cleaning? You’ll have us stinking like bilge rot by the second week.”
A faint smile touched Caelen’s lips. “All else is seawater. Always has been, though not always enforced. Washing decks, cleaning tools, even boiling certain foods—saltwater serves. Freshwater is for life, not comfort.”
Some of those shoulders sloped in assent, but not enthusiastically.
Marcus leaned back, folding his arms, a little less bored than before.
Caelen was next to the great barrel now, his palm against the curved side. "But just size doesn't do it. Spoilage is the actual failing. Stagnation. The cargo we're carrying itself comes alive against us."
One of the shipwrights leaned forward. “And your answer?”
“Fire,” Caelen said simply.
He gestured inside the empty butt. “We char the interior. Deeply. Not a light scorch—no. We burn the inner surface until it blackens and cracks. That char… it drinks impurities. The blackened wood binds the foulness—the rot you cannot see, the taste that turns men sick.”
He looked from one to the other. "You know the principal from the kitchen, where the burning wood-ash will more quickly clean a pot than water alone. It is merely contained; the char traps that which should not be there. "
The aged shipwright murmured slowly, "The char pulls the bitter from... "
"Yes, and it holds it," Caelen confirmed. Marcus’s gaze was alert; this was no common superstition; this was method. "The second is silver." The two captains looked dubious; "Two small bars, no more weight than a coin," Caelen explained, " embedded within the cask; it is impossible for it to be corrupted. You have watched how the coins in the wash sit in the water without rotting quite so quickly as the iron; that is not sorcery; that is Nature."
One captain pulled his beard. "So you're saying that the metal actually cleans the water?"
"I am saying," Caelen said, his voice even, "that water kept with silver reduces that which spoils it. Less decay. Less disease. Significantly less, after all this time, far from land."
That drew silence—not disbelief, but consideration.
Marcus stepped fully into the circle now. “And the third?”
Caelen turned slightly, acknowledging him with a brief nod.
“Air and movement,” Caelen said.
He lifted a small wooden plug from the side of the butt. “We seal the cask—but not entirely. A controlled vent. Small. Covered. Enough to release foul vapors as they build, but not enough to invite contamination. You then rotate the barrels.”
The shipwright grimaced. "You'd let air in?"
"Not intentionally," Caelen admitted. "But if you don't allow some air in, it turns quicker. Bound too tightly, it becomes corrupted. With a proper breath, it endures."
The younger shipwright exhaled. “So—char to cleanse, silver to guard… and breath and movement to preserve.”
“And discipline,” Caelen added. “Measured rations. No excess. No theft of stores. A ship fails not from storm—but from neglect.”
The broad captain gave a low chuckle. “You’re changing more than barrels, my lord. You’re changing sailors.”
Caelen’s expression did not waver. “Good. Then they may finally match the ships we build for them.”
A brief silence followed—heavy, thoughtful.
Marcus studied him at that moment. Someone who saw order where others saw habit.
“Tell me,” Marcus said at last, stepping closer to the keel, “if this works… how far can they sail?”
Caelen’s hand rested again on the timber, fingers splayed as if claiming it.
“Farther than they ever have,” he said quietly. “And more importantly… reliably. Typically, water becomes foul in 2 to 3 days. Undrinkable in one month. This new approach will keep water fresh for 2 to 3 weeks, and drinkable but unpleasant for 2 to 3 months.
The yard seemed to still around those words.
“By the deep! That will double or triple the time between resupply.” Said a shipwright.
And Marcus, for the first time, finally understood the shape of something larger than ships being built here.
Not only the size of the vessels, but also the reach.